The bearded one’s face was near Aziz’s face, their eyes were locked. The eyes asked the question—Aziz could feel it—Who is this? Aziz shook his head. As if he did not know this was Nazzar. The bearded one nodded. He moved his head right and at the same time lifted his smallest finger, almost imperceptibly.

They watched Nazzar turn to the right and hug along the tent’s side in a crouch. He looked left and right but not behind him, where five men lay. He vanished behind the back of the tent. In time, he returned on the tent’s other side, but now he stood upright. He made a tapping by knocking one fingernail on his right hand against another fingernail on his left. One, two, three, four, five.

The bearded one looked at Aziz again, asking something else. This time, Aziz nodded, as if to say this man was not to be trusted. The bearded one looked grateful. He put his tongue against his palate. One, two, three, four, five. Nazzar began walking toward the clicking from the bearded man’s mouth.

When he was right upon them, the bearded one whistled low and soft.

“Here, here. On the ground.”

Nazzar knelt, slowly, as if afraid the ground might break.

The knife they used was the length of a finger. The carotid was an instant bleeding out, but apparently not fast enough, because another knife caught the thin moon’s light before Nazzar began his cry for help.

When he was completely still, all of them, like puppies, began to dig in the sandy dirt with their hands. No one spoke. They paddled in contented unison. Soon it was just enough to cover him, and they crawled away, five men slithering from the massing of tents.

Aziz was now Nazzar to these men; that much he understood. He had not known until now what fear would do to him. It was this coolness. Ahead, he saw what he thought were two tanks. One was gleaming. It was black without chrome. Then the smell of new rubber made him think it might be a van or truck. The other behind it was old. Its black had been ground by sun to gray. Its windows were down or gone.

The unit’s camp was a distant formation under an unhelpful moon. All its tents from the overlook where Aziz now stood were one blackness on bone sand. As they made to get in the trucks, one of the men put his hand on Aziz’s neck and said in his ear, “Vite, mon frère, Benane attende.” Hurry, my brother, Benane waits. These ones meant to assassinate Benane, the Benane he had wanted to find all day.